


Double-Oh-Seven

by goldenlightsup



Series: One-Shots [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Harry Styles - Freeform, Harry's a love-struck idiot, I'm so sorry Zayn I love you, Liam and Niall are there too, Louis Tomlinson - Freeform, Louis's blind, M/M, Not literally, Pining, Tea and Hot Chocolate, Uni AU, random references to James Bond for no reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:20:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29705343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenlightsup/pseuds/goldenlightsup
Summary: “Louis,” Louis supplies. “My name’s Louis. Tomlinson. Uh, what’s yours?”“Harry.” says the boy, and Louis immediately loves it. Sure, it’s simple and a bit generic, but it’s all too perfect for the curly lad before him. Soft, easy on the ears, rolls off the tongue. “Harry Styles.” Harry laughs again, this one a sort of harsh breath that shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. “I feel like James Bond. Like,” he puts on a posh accent, “uh, ‘hello, I’m Styles. Harry Styles, but you can call me double-oh-seven.” Harry shakes his head, grimacing. “That was weird, sorry. I’m...I’m weird.”“No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t weird, was cute,” Louis says because he’s a certified idiot.Thankfully, it just makes Harry smile.“Oh...well, good, then."In which Louis was having a bad day until a curly-headed boy knocked his binder to the ground, and neither of them can remember to ask for each others' numbers.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: One-Shots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025332
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	Double-Oh-Seven

Louis Tomlinson is a decent person.

At least, he liked to think so. Sure, he doesn’t volunteer at old folks’ homes in his free time and, I mean, _yeah_ , he doesn’t go to church or call his mom nearly as much he should (hey, _decent_ doesn’t mean _saint,_ okay?), but he doesn’t think he’s at the top of Satan’s best friends list. He’s tolerable, at the very least, brings presents to his younger sisters when he visits from uni, restricts himself to one or two drinks so he’s sober enough to drive his friends home after a night at the pub--point is, he’s a decent guy. 

He’s a decent guy having a _god-awful_ day. That’s what he’s telling himself to excuse his bitchy behavior, anyway. He wouldn’t act like this on a _normal_ day; today’s just not normal. It started with a too-cold, too-rich coffee that he hates anyway (they were out of tea. How were they _out of tea?_ ) and quickly escalated into a C- on his English essay, which, yeah, he spent a lot of time on, and he takes pride in his academic capabilities, so that was kind of a hard blow. Then, he misplaced his keys and had to aimlessly search the flat he shares with his roommate, Liam (great lad, real quiet, but a loud drunk, which is always amusing) until he finally plucked them from in between two under-used couch cushions. Finally, he got stuck in traffic on his way to his 11:00 am lecture, and, okay, there _was_ a car accident, and that was probably the reason everything was so backed up (he sends them his prayers and all that jazz), but it still made him late to a very important class that he’s already risking a lower letter grade in if he doesn’t step up his game (Students with a B in English _don’t_ become journalists). So, he thinks it’s fairly understandable that when, while on his way to the cafe right off campus, a body knocks into him and sends his binder to the floor, papers falling every which way, he lets out an exasperated sigh and scoffs, “Watch where you’re going, goddamnit. You’ve got legs for a reason.”

He doesn’t notice that the figure next to him has stopped moving entirely, which, oh yeah, that was probably really rude, and he might need to apologize. Except he doesn’t have the energy right now, just wants to get a cuppa to tide him over until he eventually collapses on the couch with a beer for the first time in a while, and this figure, this _person,_ is stopping him from doing so. Which is rude on their part, too, so, really, they’re even.

He finally gathers the last of his stray papers and, stuffing them into his binder, rises to his feet, fully prepared to offer the clumsy person in front of him a curt nod and be on his way. And he _was_ going to do that, too. It’s, well. It’s just.

The boy in front of him is _beautiful_. He’s got long, dark (dare he say it) chocolatey locks that frame the high cheekbones accentuating his pale face perfectly, his legs are clad in black skinny jeans that may as well be spray-tanned onto his body, and his eyes, _god_ , his eyes are just lovely. Like two forests just before autumn fully kicks in, mixes of sage and emerald and amber that Picasso had to have painted himself. And suddenly, Louis feels very, very stupid for being a jerk to this probably kind, _gorgeous_ stranger.

Said stranger hasn’t moved from where he knocked into him, Louis notices as his strained features soften, the crinkles above his nose and on his forehead smoothing as the tension in his muscles fades away. The boy is just looking at him with these big doe eyes, all worried and innocent, and if Louis didn’t feel bad before, he certainly does now.

“I, um, sorry, I didn’t mean...I’m not usually like that.” He pushes his feathery brown hair out of his eyes, silently cursing his choppy train of thought. “I’m just having a rough day.”

The boy seems to relax a bit after that, though his eyes are still wide as ever. And, yeah, he looks scared (which Louis can’t help but think is his fault), but there’s also a hint of awe in them, which is...a pleasant surprise, though the purpose of this emotion, the blue-eyed boy has no idea, 

“It’s, uh, it’s okay,” the boy says. His voice is totally unlike what Louis was expecting, all velvety and deep and _sexy_ , and-- and okay, Louis really shouldn’t be having these thoughts about someone he doesn’t even know. Still, he feels like they’re justified in this particular circumstance. “I’m a clutz, you...you don’t need to apologize for anything.”

“Except I do,” Louis insists earnestly, tucking his binder under his arm. “I feel bad, so I _do_ need to apologize because I treated you like shit and you are decisively _not_ shit.”

At that, the boy giggles--fucking _giggles_ \--and Louis is quite possibly in love. Which is a bit premature, yeah, but again, _justified._

“Well, then, I accept your apology, um…”

“Louis,” Louis supplies. “My name’s Louis. Tomlinson. Uh, what’s yours?”

“Harry.” says the boy, and Louis immediately loves it. Sure, it’s simple and a bit generic, but it’s all too perfect for the curly lad before him. Soft, easy on the ears, rolls off the tongue. “Harry Styles.” Harry laughs again, this one a sort of harsh breath that shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. “I feel like James Bond. Like,” he puts on a posh accent, “uh, ‘hello, I’m Styles. Harry Styles, but you can call me double-oh-seven.” Harry shakes his head, grimacing. “That was weird, sorry. I’m...I’m weird.”

“No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t weird, was cute,” Louis says because he’s a certified idiot. 

Thankfully, it just makes Harry smile. 

“Oh...well, good, then. I appreciate that, Louis.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

For a moment, both boys just stare at each other, and it should be awkward, should be cause for embarrassment, but it’s not. Their stare feels _charged_ , which probably isn’t a thing, and Louis is probably just reading too much into things, but that’s what it feels like.

Of course, he has to ruin it by saying, “Well, I better get going. Nice talking to you, Styles, Harry Styles.”

“Oh,” Harry says, eyes widening only for the tiniest bit. “Alright, I, uh, sorry again. Hope your day gets better.”

“It already has,” Louis promises, which, _wow_ , that was forward and not entirely creepy at _all_ , but whatever, he probably won’t ever see this beautiful boy again. “See you around. Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry smiles. “See you around.”

With that, they both walk their separate ways, and Louis convinces himself that’s it, that he just met the most gorgeous stranger in the world, and they’ll probably never cross paths again.

It’s a pity, sure, but that doesn’t change the fact that Louis’s day just got much, much better.

  
  


Louis is wrong, though, which would generally piss him off, but he’s wrong about never seeing Harry again, and how could be mad about that?

He’s just finishing up his scone at the aforementioned cafe a week later when a tall, lanky boy waltzes into the cafe without a care in the world, and Louis thinks, no, he _knows_ it’s Harry, can tell by the way his curls bounce as he walks and by the slight hop in his step.

(Louis’s observant, okay? Nothing more). 

(It’s not weird unless you make it weird).

Still, as much as Louis wants to go over and say hi to the boy, maybe even work up the courage to ask for his number, he doesn’t, just waits for Harry to say hi to him, which, maybe he doesn’t even remember him and then this whole ‘pining’ thing would be a huge waste of time. Well, at least he’s nice to look at. So. There’s that.

Harry accepts his drink from the barista and _did he get a hot chocolate?_ That’s...well, Louis thinks it’s a lot cuter than he should, to be quite honest. Does he not like coffee? Does Harry order hot chocolate as a way of commemorating his childhood? Maybe he gets extra whipped cream or caramel drizzle. Maybe he drinks it too quickly and burns his tongue in the midst of his haste. Suddenly, Louis wants to know all about the way Harry Styles drinks his hot chocolate.

He’s so focused on imagining realities, in fact, that he doesn’t see the truth standing in front of him.

“Hello, Louis, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says. He’s the type of smiler that doesn’t go half-way, Louis can tell. If he’s happy, he shows it, eyes glinting and dimples on display.

(And, okay, wow, Louis now has a preference for boys with dimples. Nice). 

“You know, Harry, Harry Styles,” Louis says, trying to sound as casual as he can muster, “If you really want to sound like James Bond, it would be the opposite way. Like, last name, then the full name. It’s like mysterious and sexy and shit.”

Harry is positively beaming, though Louis sees that the hand holding his drink is shaking slightly, which, one, is a minor detail he’d never catch normally, so maybe he is going insane. But also, Louis refuses to attribute this to nerves because why would a boy like Harry be nervous about talking to someone like Louis? It just didn’t make sense.

“Well, as mysterious and sexy as I am, I like how we say it,” Harry says, and does that boy ever stop smiling? Not that Louis minds, obviously. It’s freakishly attractive. “It’s like...our own thing, you know?” He scrunches his nose in thought, and now Louis wants to keep him. Like, in his pocket. But that’s probably illegal. And difficult. Still. “I’ve never had a _thing_ with anyone before. ‘S fun,” Harry adds as an afterthought, but the sheer giddiness in his voice tells Louis he’s thought about this before. _So, so cute._

“Well, then, surely the boy with whom I share this ‘thing’ with wouldn’t mind sitting with me for a couple minutes?” Louis asks. The boy’s eyes widen, his mouth forming a straight line before relaxing into an ‘o,’ and Louis is nervous that he’s been too forward (which, can you blame him, honestly?). “Unless you have somewhere to be. Which I totally understand, I’m not trying to keep you here.”

“No!” Harry says a bit urgently. He clears his throat and shakes his head. “I mean, no, you’re not keeping me. I’d love to sit with you for a bit.” 

As promised, the curly boy takes his place opposite the blue-eyed boy, and Louis doesn’t think he’s ever been this nervous about anything _ever._ Which is probably hyperbole (his secondary school teacher would be so proud of him) and completely untrue since there have been loads of times he’s literally started sweating because of his nerves, but still. Harry makes him nervous, which is scary in and of itself. The thought of making conversation, though? With his snarky comebacks? Downright terrifying. 

“So, double-oh-seven, what brings you here this fine morning?” Louis asks. Triumph shoots through his veins when Harry gives a faint chuckle.

“I come here before classes sometimes,” Harry explains. “Sugar keeps me up better than caffeine ever could. Which basically makes me an eighteen-year-old toddler, but, you know,” he gives one of his toothy grins, “At least I’m an energized eighteen-year-old toddler.”

Louis laughs a bit too loudly at that. “Understandable. I prefer tea, honestly, but I’d crash and burn without a cuppa.”

“Right,” Harry says. “I get that, too.”

Their conversation is quickly losing energy, Louis realizes. Harry isn’t talking anymore, just fiddling with the green stopper in his cup and staring, and Louis is about to say something dumb to try and keep Harry captive, if only for a few more moments when he realizes what Harry is staring at: him. 

_Oh_.

“I’m surprised I haven’t seen you around campus before,” Louis continues with more gusto. “You don’t seem like the type of person I’d forget easily.”

Harry’s eyes widen for the millionth time, a light blush dusting his pale complexion as he fits his lower lip between his teeth. They’re very straight and white, Louis realizes. And god, now he thinks teeth are attractive. Just perfect.

“Well, I study a lot. If you’ve been to the university’s library, you’ve probably seen me bent over a desk,” Harry says, doe eyes full of innocence.

Which, okay, now _that’s_ not fair. Not fair at all. He can’t just _say_ things like that without understanding the innuendo behind it. Louis refuses to be endeared. He refuses, refuses, _refuses._

He is completely and utterly endeared. And a little turned on. Shit.

“See, now that’s where we run into a problem,” Louis says, trying to erase the mental image his mind has curated for him. Not that said image is unpleasant (quite the opposite, actually), but it feels weird to be fantasizing about someone sitting three feet away from him. Curse him and his wild imagination, honestly. “I’m kind of a homebody. At least, when it comes to studying. Libraries are so crowded and just...ugh. Can’t stand ‘em, for some reason. A home’s much better. Plus, I can inhale food without judgy stares.”

Harry snorts (yes, _snorts_ , like a pig. An adorable, innocent, adorably innocent pig). “So, what’s your major, cheekbones?” Curly Boy asks. The minute he does, he seems to regret it, which is dumb because now Louis’s cheeks are heating up and Louis doesn’t get shy easily. Other things, sure ( _drunk_ being one of them), but shy? It takes a special breed to quiet Louis Tomlinson.

Harry’s pretty special, though. 

“Um, Journalism,” Louis says, cursing his wavery voice. _Get it together, Tomlinson._ “I’ve always wanted to be a writer. An actor too, maybe, but mostly a writer. You?”

“Psychology,” Harry smiles. “I love it, too. Wanted to sing initially, though, but that’s never gonna happen. So psychology it was.”

“Wait, woah, back up,” Louis says. “You sing? Seriously?” 

See, what Louis’s actually thinking is, _God, can you get any more perfect_ , but he doesn’t want to...you know...scare him.

“Really seriously,” Harry promises. 

“You any good?” Louis asks dumbly. 

“Nope,” Harry grins. “I suck. Only play bars and stuff to embarrass myself. They hire me for laughs, the owners. Just love to watch me suffer croaking out notes and fumbling with my guitar.” 

Louis is slightly taken aback by the sarcasm in Harry’s tone, which is new for him but also hilarious and mildly ( _not_ mildly) lovely. Louis thinks they’re gonna get along really well. 

“Oi, stop messing with me, you twat, I get it. You’re the next Mick Jagger. Should I get your autograph now or wait until you’re playing venues instead of bars?”

Harry rolls his eyes, but there’s more than a lilt of amusement in his smile. 

“Okay, you know what, I regret talking to you.”

“Do you, now?”

“I do. You’re mean.”

“I can be, yeah. But only to people I like. You’re lucky, Curly. I don’t like most people.”

Louis hopes Harry can tell he’s kidding. He’s not a recluse by any means. To be honest, he doesn’t know why he’s still talking. 

“Wow, I’m flattered. Truly. Didn’t know being one of your higher-ups was such an honor. Should I bow now or wait till you’re standing?”

Louis gapes. “We’re full of it today, aren’t we, double-oh-seven?”

Harry shrugs. “I’m not usually, though. Guess you’re just rubbing off on me.”

Louis would like to make a joke about that, something immature about how he wouldn’t mind rubbing off on someone. And he’s about to do it too (which, in actuality, is a very bad idea), but then: “Shit, I’m here,” Harry gasps. “I mean, shit, I’m late. I mean, er, I should stop saying ‘shit.’”

“You got somewhere to be, Curly?”

“Yeah, unfortunately, I have a lecture in a bit,” Harry frowns. “Sorry, didn’t mean to, like, be rude or whatever. I’d much rather stay here. But duty calls and all that.”

Louis refuses to be flattered. 

He fails. 

“It’s all good, double-oh-seven. Have fun. Break boundaries. Expand your horizons. All that crap.”

“Right, thanks, Dad,” Harry giggles, and nope, that’s not a loaded statement. Louis is just really, really immature. 

“At your service,” Louis grins, saluting. 

“Well, it was nice to talk to you, Louis,” says the green-eyed boy. Louis doesn’t think he stopped smiling once when they were talking, which might just be how Harry is, but it’s still a victory in any event. “Really nice.” The blush returns to his cheeks. “I, um, shoot, I really do have to go. I’ll see you, okay?”

“Kay, bye Harry,” Louis smiles.

Harry waves once before rushing out the door, the cafe’s bell chiming as he does. It’s only when Louis is back in his flat that he realizes he, yet again, forgot to get the boy’s number. 

Dammit. 

  
  


Louis has officially run out of luck. Or maybe he never had any in the first place, and the universe was playing a joke on him. In any case, he hasn’t seen Harry since the cafe, and everything just feels completely and utterly hopeless.

“Everything sucks,” Louis groans to no one in particular, though Liam and their friend Niall are chowing down on chips and dip nearby.

“Aww, quit moping, Tommo. We’ll find your mystery prince,” Niall says, dyed blonde hair bouncing as he races over to where Louis is resting on the couch. “And anyway, tonight is lads’ night, alright? No debby-downers. Just pints and chips.”

“Your two true loves,” Liam teases, sitting on the opposite side of Louis, The muscular boy’s position on the couch does not stop Niall from hitting him with a throw pillow, though. 

“How dare you,” Niall huffs. “I’m in a very serious relationship with Ben and Jerry as well. Rude of you to insinuate otherwise.”

Louis lets out a mix between a grunt and a laugh. Count on Niall to make everything ten times better, seriously.

“Alright, losers, fine, I’ll go out tonight and have a jolly good time and forget all about the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

Niall and Liam share a concerned look before Niall slaps Louis on the back and grins. “That’s the spirit! Let’s go get pissed.”

As Louis grabs his keys, he hears Liam mutter, “Damn, he’s really obsessed with that guy, huh?”

And sure, that may be one-hundred percent true, but that doesn’t stop Louis from flipping off his friend over his shoulder. 

  
  


Louis has always liked going out to bars. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of the way his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, the rush of adrenaline he gets before he’s even had a sip of alcohol just by walking through the door. The moment he and his friends enter, they head straight for the bar and order a round of shots, then another for good measure. Soon, they’re thoroughly buzzed and laughing louder than necessary. Which would have been a good idea, great actually, if it wasn’t for who he sees when he turns around after a rather large sip of tequila. 

“Hiya, stranger,” a soothing voice says. Louis knows that voice. He’s been wanting to hear it since the day at the cafe. It’s been way too long (well, probably a couple of weeks, but that’s still _way_ too long anyway). Louis doesn’t know what to do. His brain isn’t functioning normally (and not just because of the alcohol). How is he supposed to talk to Harry when he can barely form a coherent thought? 

_Talk with Harry..._ that reminds him...

“Can I have your number?” 

Well, that was a shitty greeting.

Harry looks taken aback, eyes the size of saucers and face muscles keep flexing and relaxing like he doesn’t know how to react, mouth opening and closing with them.

“Oh, I, um, y-yeah, sure. Let me just…” Harry fumbles through his jean pockets and pulls out his phone.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean...that was rude, I’m sorry,” Louis rushes. He can hear Niall stifling snickers next to him, but he doesn’t have time to mind.

“Oh,” Harry stops mid-motion. “Do you not want my number?”

“No, no, I do, I do,” Louis insists, and _god, this is embarrassing_. “Sorry, I’m just buzzed. And nervous. Mostly nervous.”

Louis thinks Harry blushing is one of his favorite things ever now.

“Oh,” Harry breathes. “Well. That’s good because I _want_ to give you my number.” He shakes his head ever so slightly and adds, “Because, well, I’ve been, like, wanting to annoy you more, but I didn’t have the means.”

“Right,” Louis laughs, getting his mobile out as well. He takes a picture of Harry without his permission and laughs at the result: a perfectly-timed image that distorts his face just the right amount. Grinning, he shows it to Harry, who fake-pouts before snapping a photo of Louis, which is admittedly just as bad and causes both of them to laugh, but Louis’s not going to say that aloud. He’s got more pride than that. 

Well, maybe not around Harry.

They type their numbers into each other’s phones and hand them back, both grinning like lunatics. Louis wants to say something, anything, but he knows he’ll just end up embarrassing himself like he always does. Luckily (or maybe not), Harry checks the time and makes a ‘tsk’ sound. 

“Shoot, I’ve gotta go.”

“Go? Go where?” Louis asks. He just got here. He can’t go. That’s not fair. As hard as it is for him to maintain a normal conversation with the beautiful boy, he’d rather fumble his way through a chat than watch Harry walk away again. At least he’s got his number now. So, I mean, there’s that. But still. _Still_. 

“You’ll see, Louis, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry grins. Then, without another word, he turns and leaves. 

Except, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he mounts the small stage (more of a platform, really) at the back of the bar, sits on a stool, and begins tuning his guitar with the ease of someone who’s done it a million times. 

“He plays at bars,” Louis recalls aloud.

“What?” A voice that seemingly came from nowhere asks. He looks over and...oh. Right. He had kind of forgotten about Niall and Liam. Oops?

“I forgot. He told me he plays bars. Didn’t realize he played _here._ Shit.”

“So that’s him then?” Liam asks, amused. “That’s the guy you’ve been bummed about for weeks?”

Louis sighs. There’s no point, is there? In lying, that is. 

“Yeah, it is. Wish I wasn’t such an idiot just now, though. He probably hates me. Or, at the very least, thinks I’m a psychopath.”

Niall and Liam stare at Louis like he’s got two heads. Which, why?

“You’re kidding me, right?” Liam asks. Louis stares back dumbly. God, his head already hurts from the alcohol. Or maybe from overthinking.

Definitely both.

“Louis, that guy, Harry, was it?” Louis nods surprised that his friend remembers his name, most likely from listening to his ramblings regarding the curly-haired, green-eyed angel for weeks on end, but it’s still impressive nonetheless. “Well, Harry likes you. I’d even go so far as to say he’s _obsessed_. Which, I don’t get because you’re _you_ and he’s _hot_.”

Louis scoffs. “Wow, thanks, Ni. Good to know you’re the supportive one in this relationship.” He pauses for a moment. Then: “Wait, you think he’s hot?”

“I’m straight, not blind,” Niall responds sagely. 

Oh. Well. Yeah. Okay.

“Right,” Louis says. Before he can continue to voice his worries, though, he hears the faint plucking of guitar strings as several _hushes_ float around the bar. Craning his neck, Louis spots Harry adjusting his mic, tapping it twice with his finger, flipping the pic between his knuckles. 

_Hot_ is all he thinks. 

“Hey, everybody,” Harry begins, smiling like crazy, and it’s almost impossible to believe that someone with such a mature look and voice could still come across as cute. Like, can someone really be cute and hot? Is that actually a thing? _Huh._ “I’m Harry. Harry Styles.”

He locks eyes with Louis from across the room and flashes him a quick, cheeky wink. Louis just about loses it. He doesn’t, though, which is good for his already-bruised ego. Another hit, and it’ll need life support. 

“This first one’s called Snow Globe. Hope you enjoy.”

And Louis does. Louis _does_ enjoy. Because Harry...oh my god, Harry is _amazing_. His voice is like velvet dipped in honey, deep and soft and yet so powerful. That’s not even the best part, though. 

“If the glass is your prison cell, at least it’s snowing inside. I know you’re shaken up, darling, but everything will be fine.”

His lyrics. Harry Styles is singing an original song about _mental health_. Using the extending metaphor of a snow globe (ha, take that, professor. He knows things). How is Louis supposed to listen to any other song again, enjoy any other _voice_ again, when this is what he could be listening to. Harry. Just Harry and his delicately-played guitar and his therapeutic voice. 

Is it too early to be in love?

Probably. Louis doesn’t care. 

The song comes to a close and another begins. But Louis is still stuck on the perfection he just heard, so much so that even as the last song ends, Snow Globe is still echoing in the darkest, most narrow and hard to reach allies of his mind.

(I mean, “I’m on the outside looking in, see you’re trapped in this glass prison. Nothing I can do if you don’t let me, let me at least try.” _Come-fucking-on.)_

Harry thanks his adoring crowd, which has gotten slightly larger than when he began to play, and walks directly for Louis.

“So,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “How was it?”

Louis doesn’t know how to respond. Can words even describe what he’s feeling? He’s a writer, goddammit, he should be able to voice this. But apparently, Harry’s one too, and it’s more than a little ironic that his words are leaving him speechless.

So, instead of talking, he launches at the tall, somewhat-lanky boy.

For a hug, that is. He’s drunk, not nuclear. 

“I’m really sort of buzzed right now. Like, drunk enough to be doing this but not enough to forget it in the morning. I just...that was so beautiful, literally everything about that, and I can’t believe I’m in possession of a pop star’s phone number.”

Harry smiles that dimpled smile of his, pleased with himself. _He should be pleased, he was sensational_.

“Thanks, Lou,” he says. “I was nervous, more than usual, actually, because you’re here. But I’m glad you liked it.”

“I _loved_ it,” Louis admits. “I almost started crying during Love Me, Please. And Snow Globe? Forget it, I was on the floor.”

C’mon, brain to mouth filter. Any day now would be a _great_ time to kick in. 

“Oh, thank you, Louis,” Harry positively beams. “That one’s actually about my sister.”

“What, Love Me, Please? A little unconventional, but hey, you do you, pal.”

Oh, wow, a funny joke. Out of Louis’s mouth. As he’s drunk and talking to the one guy that’s sent him into fits of flustered stammers since high school. It’s truly a miracle. 

Harry hits Louis (lightly) on the shoulder. “No, you idiot. Snow Globe. I wrote it a few months ago. She was going through a rough time, and I just...I just hated it. And I kept wishing I could help her, but it was like she was in her own world...sorry, that’s probably too much information. I’ll stop talking now.”

“Please, don’t,” Louis says without thinking. He doesn’t really care how desperate he sounds anymore. He blames this on the tequila. “I could listen to you all day.”

Harry tries to hide his blush with laughter, but it’s pretty visible on his white-as-a-sheet face. “Then as you wish,” he says with a bow.

Louis returns his laughter, and for the rest of the night, it’s so easy to pretend that this is how it’s always been. 

  
  


Things change after the night at the bar. For one, Louis has Harry’s number. So, naturally, Harry receives texts like “did you know bananas share 50% of our DNA?” and “if a chicken is too scared to cross the road, does that make him a chicken chicken?” Louis hopes he doesn’t mind. He just feels like sharing every thought he ever has with the Curly Boy at all times, every hour of the day. In return, Harry sends long voice memos and selfies (selfies _galore_ ) because he says it hurts his thumbs to write as much as he wants to say. They talk about everything from Harry’s music to Louis’s stories to what they had for lunch that day to their least favorite Avengers movies and why. 

But that’s not the only thing that changes.

Louis spends a lot of time with Harry now. Like, a _lot_ of time. They study together at Louis’s flat, grab tea and hot chocolate every morning, and go to every possible restaurant and attraction in the London area just so they can be together. More often than not, you’ll find Louis sitting on the bean bag chair in Harry’s dorm while the emerald-eyed boy plucks out a tune-in-progress. Once in a while, he even asks Louis for help with his lyrics to the point where Louis is almost a songwriter himself. He enjoys it, actually, but not just the creative aspect.

Any time with Harry is time he savors. 

Needless to say, Louis is in deep. 

Which is scary. Because from what Louis can tell, Harry likes him too, but he also likes _everyone_. He never has a bad thing to say about anyone, not even when Niall plucks popcorn from his bowl or when Liam’s clacking away on his laptop doing god-knows-what. He’s pleasant at his worst, and that means that Louis doesn’t really know what his best is. 

Right now, they’re lying on Harry’s couch, moonlight peeking in through the windows, Harry’s legs on Louis’s lap as he cards through Harry’s hair. It’s entirely too domestic and Louis doesn’t know how to breathe.

“How was your day,” Harry asks as the credits to some nameless movie begin to roll. Louis doesn’t even know what it was about, to be quite honest, just that Harry kept laughing at what the main character was saying and Louis could listen to his laugh all day.

“Good. Long. I’m glad I’m here now,” Louis smiles. On the inside, he’s a nervous wreck because it’s just Harry, just him and Harry, and there’s no noise in the room except for the dull buzz of the dishwasher and everything is too intimate right now but he can’t look away.

“Me too,” Harry says. “I’m really glad I got to know you. ‘Ve always wanted to.”

_What?_

Louis looks over at Harry, who’s visibly cringing, and all Louis can think is, _what is he on about?_

“What do you mean, double-oh-seven?” He asks, and is it hot in here, or is it just Harry’s godly jawline? 

“I just...um…” Harry falters, searching for the words he normally plays with so well lyrically. Now, though, it seems he has creator’s block. “Okay. Okay,” he huffs out a breath. “Promise you won’t be mad. Or, like, weirded out, or anything.”

“What? Harry, I’ve no clue what you’re talking about. Why would I be mad at you?” Louis asks, and it’s probably a dumb thing to say, but Louis at just as much of a loss as Harry. 

“Just promise,” Harry pleads, more nervous than scared. Louis hates when Harry’s nervous. Harry should never have to be nervous, especially not in front of him.

Louis nods his head. 

“Okay, so, how do I say this?” Harry wonders aloud. He shuffles in his seat, taking his legs off of Louis’s lap and planting them on the floor, body turned towards one confused boy. “Well, I’ve kind of...I noticed you. Like, a while back, actually. And I thought you were really beautiful, like, _insanely_ beautiful, so I’ve kind of had a crush on you since.” Harry drops his gaze to the floor. “So, um, one day, I saw you walking in my direction, and I just...It was my only chance. So I ran into you.” Harry’s words are getting quicker and more clipped now, the last syllable of one running into the first of another. “I regretted it the moment I did it, especially when you said you were having a bad day, and all I could think was that I blew it. But then...then you were so nice and we got to talking at the cafe, and now I like you more than I ever thought possible.” He finally, _finally_ meets Louis’s eyes, and it’s like the world stops just for them. “So, yeah. I’m really, really glad I got to know you, Lou.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say. His brain is a blank slate, his thoughts halted. His mouth has gone slack, his eyes wide and unblinking. Harry must think he’s insane.

 _Harry._ Harry _likes_ him. Just as much as Louis does Harry, probably, which Louis would have never thought possible. It was always a possibility, like, “What if there’s life on other planets, what if I fail my next exam, does Harry like me?” But now, _now_ it’s a fact. It’s “the sky is blue and the grass is green and Harry-fucking-Styles fucking likes me.

Louis seldom gets shy, really. He’s always known what to say. But now, looking at Harry, whose doe eyes are wider than ever, bottom lip trembling, gaze unbreaking, he’s stuck. Completely, utterly stuck. It’s the Harry Styles effect, he supposes. He should have grown accustomed to it by now, but alas, he’s an idiot and time isn’t real and _Harry likes him_. 

Louis doesn’t know what to say. So, he doesn’t speak.

Instead, he lurches forward and fits Harry’s lips into his.

And it’s incredible. 

It feels like stepping into an air-conditioned room after a long day in the excruciating sun, like the first bite of ice cream before it gets all melty, like a warm blanket fresh from the drier, like a sunset over a snowy mountain, like a rainy Friday afternoon spent curled on the couch with a book, like a chorus of angels sent from heaven playing harps and singing with vibrato, like one plus one is two and the sky is blue and the grass is green and Harry Styles likes him and _he’s kissing him_. He’s _kissing_ Harry Styles.

And after a brief moment of confusion, Harry kisses back.

They fit together so well, is the thing, like their mouths were molded for this very purpose. The kiss isn’t heated, though passionate, but Harry is still breathing hard, hands shaking as they snake around Louis’s neck. His lips are plush and firm, but too hesitant, _way_ too hesitant. Harry should not have to be hesitant about anything ever. Louis wants to change that.

His solution is to kiss deeper. 

Which is dumb because why the hell would the thing making Harry nervous make him _less nervous_ if done with greater strength? It’s nonsensical, but Louis does it anyway because now that their lips are connected, he doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to stop breathing the same air, sharing the same breath as Harry.

They only part when there’s no air left to breathe.

Harry’s lips are red and slightly swollen, and his pupils are so large they almost cover his iris, and all Louis can think is _beautiful. So, so beautiful_.

“I’m glad I got to know you too, Harry.”

“You kissed me,” is all Harry responds with. 

“I did,” Louis says. He’s very proud of himself, too, can’t believe he worked up the courage to do such a thing. “Want to kiss me again?”

Harry’s mouth falls open, and Louis is certain he can hear the curly-haired boy’s heartbeat. Then, he’s nodding vigorously, desperately. 

“Yes. Please.”

And it all escalates from there.

  
  


Louis Tomlinson is a decent person. Sure, he still doesn’t know how to do long division and he’s a sloppy drunk and his stories have more gore than necessary, but he still got Harry Styles to fall just as madly in love with him as Louis is with his angel, and that. Well, that has got to count for something. 

It does. It counts for _everything_. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I had no plot in mind for this. I just wrote whatever came to mind. It probably shows.


End file.
